Nightside 11 - A Hard Days Knight

perfect, with not a drop of liquor on it. The Angel’s Tears had disguised its presence all this time but hadn’t been able to touch it. Because the feather was the real deal.
    “Is that what I think it is?” said Suzie, after a moment.
    “Yes,” I said. “A feather from an angel’s wing. I found a downed angel during the War. Brought down by really serious magics, with its wings ripped off and propped up on bricks. So to speak. I found the feather some distance away, in the gutter, and took it away with me. Because I always thought the time would arrive when it would come in handy.”
    “All right, it’s very pretty,” Suzie said grudgingly. “But what use is it? What can you do with it, apart from tickle someone to death?”
    “According to the reading I’ve done on the subject, an angel’s feather can protect you from spiritual corruption,” I said. “And given that we’re almost certainly going to be dealing with Sinister Albion ...”
    “You mean the living Merlin?” said Alex, up to the minute on news as usual and determined not to be left out of the conversation. “Merlin Satanspawn, more powerful than the Merlin we knew and nastier with it? Word is he’s here in the Nightside right now, looking for his missing King Artur.”
    “Not just the living Merlin,” I said. “According to the London Knights, we also have to worry about one Prince Gaylord the Damned, Nuncio to the Court of King Artur. He’s here, too.”
    “What’s so special about him?” said Suzie.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “No-one knows. That’s what’s so worrying.”
    “But ... it’s only a feather,” said Suzie.
    “No, it isn’t,” I said. “It looks like a feather to our limited human senses because the reality of it is far too big for us to deal with. This came from a messenger of God, His will made manifest in the material world. It’s no more only a feather than an angel is just some guy with wings.”
    “First Excalibur, then the London Knights, now an angel’s feather,” said Alex. “Going up in the world, John. Been a long time since anything so obviously good came into the Nightside ... We could probably get good money for this. And I mean serious money ...”
    I picked the feather up and tucked it into my inside coat-pocket. My fingers tingled at the brief contact. “There are some things money can’t buy, Alex.”
    “I know. That’s what credit is for.”
    “What are you going to do with the feather, John?” said Suzie.
    “Hang on to it,” I said. “And hope some of its essential goodness rubs off on me.”
    “Good luck with that,” said Suzie. “Also, Alex, my bottle is empty.”
    “Lot of people are talking about Excalibur,” said Alex as he handed Suzie a fresh bottle. “Mostly trying to figure out how the hell it ended up with you, John.”
    “I am not worthy,” I said solemnly. “But, I have a special dispensation.”
    Alex paused, thoughtfully. “When I was younger, and still believed I was descended from Arthur Pendragon, instead of Merlin Satanspawn, I used to dream of wielding Excalibur. What did it feel like?”
    “Like I could do anything,” I said.
    And that was when lightning slammed down into the bar. Huge jagged bolts of blue-white electricity, jumping from ceiling to floor to every metal object in the bar. Sparks jumped and exploded, crackling loudly on the air. I could feel the wild energies tingling on my bare skin, and my hair stood up. The air stank of ozone. The lightning slammed down again and again, filling the bar with brutal, merciless light. Tables and chairs caught fire. The floor suddenly cracked apart, a long, jagged line that ran from one end of the bar to the other, the crack widening and splintering as it tore itself apart. Everyone in the bar was running for the exit. Some were on fire. There was screaming and shouting and all the sounds of pain and horror. I put my back to the bar, and Suzie was right there at my side, shotgun at the ready.
    The crack in the floor widened further still, becoming a crevice full of darkness. And up out of that bottomless darkness rose a huge iron throne, its heavy black metal carved and scarred with crawling unquiet runes. And sitting at his ease on that cold iron throne—Merlin Satanspawn of Sinister Albion. The greatest living sorcerer of a realm where evil had triumphed. He smiled on me as the throne came to a halt, hovering over the abyss; and it was not a human smile.
    The living Merlin was tall,